


The Jason Todd Memorial Library

by Molly_Hats



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e24-26 The Savage Time, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by JL s01e24-26 The Savage Time, Jason Todd is Dead, Memorials, Not DCAU compliant, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 08:04:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly_Hats/pseuds/Molly_Hats
Summary: Jason's room slowly accumulates books.  Nobody will admit to leaving them, and nobody will remove them.  Maybe they hope he'll come back and read them someday, all the gold and rubbish they've found or even bought as they went on their missions.Jason Todd is dead, his grave unmarked and unadorned.  But the place where he lived is filled with what he loved.(AU based on the Savage Time future)





	The Jason Todd Memorial Library

Bruce found Jason on the streets. The boy squirreled away loads of things, tools and supplies, but also books. By the time Bruce found him, he’d built himself a sort of nest, the books providing insulation from the cold in the drafty old warehouse he’d made his home. 

He was their luck, their youngest recruit since Dick, able to squeeze into the tight spots Dick no longer could. Whip-smart, clever, bit of a nerd, but so eager to please and filled with as much dedication and passion to take down the regime as any of them.

Dick was on a mission with the Titans squad when Jason died. He often picked up abandoned books for his little brother, classics and dime store novellas alike. The kid never stopped. Dick came home happy, took off his helmet, went to give Jason his gift.

Bruce didn’t tell him. Barbara did, explaining Jason’s absence from the doorway of his room. Dick set the book down carefully and fled, walking fast and stiff.

Slowly, books began to accumulate where Jason had once lived, nobody knowing who or how many people were leaving them. Occasionally they’d bump into each other nearby, eyes down, pretending not to notice each other.

They needed any space they could muster, Bruce knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to clean out Jason’s room. He’d step over the threshold, the heel of his boot on the floor, and will himself to put his toe down. The farthest he ever got was a few days after Jason died, when Alfred found Bruce in the center of the room, a tear running down his face, a well-loved copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ opened to a bookmarked page. Alfred steered him out of the room and shut the door again.

When Tim came, Bruce was determined to draw a line between the civilians and the resistance. He told Tim that they had it handled, that he should stay out of trouble. 

Tim came across the room while exploring. It was a mess, books everywhere in stacks and piles and precarious peaks waiting for an avalanche at the slightest urging. He took one in his hand, a stained copy of _Pride & Prejudice_, and flipped it open to the inside cover. It read “This book belongs to Jason Peter Todd” in handwritten letters that grew smaller as they crossed the page.

Tim made organizing the room into a project, staving off the boredom of being a kid alone with busy adults. He climbed piles and mountains, triggering avalanches and leaping out of the way, making stairs out of stacks to reach the others, sorting by author, by title, by fiction/nonfiction/age/subject/size. And frequently, recurring often enough for Tim to notice a definite pattern, the books bore the name “Jason Peter Todd.”

“Who’s Jason Todd?” Tim asked Bruce one day when he caught him in the hallway. 

Bruce flinched. “He’s… he was… ask Dick.”

He did so.

“Where’d you hear about him?” Dick asked in surprise. “B’s wiped ‘most any sign of him away.”

“Books,” Tim said. “I think it’s his room. Where’d he go?”

Dick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s dead. He died when he was a little older than you. That’s why B’s so adamant about you an’ Steph staying out of the fight.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve been in his room? I was sure B would’ve sealed it off by now.”

“I’ve been going through the books,” Tim said, eyes on Dick’s feet. His voice dropped lower and lower as he said, “I’ve been organizing them.”

“You have?” 

“Yeah,” Tim said, nearly inaudible, head bowed in shame. “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked, but you’re all so busy and you just want me to stay out of the way, and I was, and it---I--I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Tim wiped a tear, furious at himself for crying for no effing reason.

Dick set a hand on his shoulder and crouched down. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Jason would be happy someone else is as excited about books. Tell you what, you get everything sorted out, and I’ll help you make some shelves, okay?”

Tim nodded, smiling. “Okay!”

It took awhile for Dick to find the time, but he did eventually. They built shelves together. Tim climbed on the bookshelves to reach the higher places and arrange the books there, so Dick screwed them to the wall. 

“Don’t want you pulling any of them down on you,” Dick said with a grin as he set down the screwdriver. He ruffled Tim’s hair affectionately.

The finishing touch was the sign--Tim’s idea, which Dick wholeheartedly endorsed. They painted it on the door, Tim imitating Jason’s handwriting in pencil and Dick painting over it.

“The Jason Peter Todd Memorial Library,” the door read. They pinned a photograph beneath it, one that survived Bruce’s purge by being buried in one of the books. It was of Jason, novel in hand, contentedly curled up in one of the window seats in the study. 

Tim looked at it often, wondering what Jason was like. Would they have gotten along? Would they have fought? He was a little older, about two years. Tim wondered what it would be like having another older brother, before turning away from the picture, knowing only that he’d never really know. 

Jason Todd was dead, his grave unmarked and unadorned. But the place where he lived continued to fill with what he loved--the books and the people he’d spent the happiest years of his life with.


End file.
